


all the stories we tell ourselves

by Chiomi



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 18:59:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16143470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiomi/pseuds/Chiomi
Summary: A group of alphas have volunteered Derek to host a convention - and they're particularly interested in the pack human. The best way to keep Stiles safe is to make it look like he's involved with Derek. All they have to do is sell the story.





	all the stories we tell ourselves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sisforsterek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sisforsterek/gifts).



Derek came in through the window, wild-eyed and clutching a letter. “They want me to host!”

“I’m . . . happy for you?” Stiles hazarded, turning away from his statistics homework.

“No, this is terrible,” Derek says. “I can’t - if I mess up, it’ll be a bloodbath again!”

Okay, that sounded serious. Stiles turned around fully to face Derek. “Okay, that sounds bad. I need you to actually explain now.”

Derek’s face went through several frustrated spasms. Stiles waited him out. Derek huffed exasperatedly. “The alpha convention! It’s every five years, and this time the committee wants me to host it.”

Stiles blinked slowly. “Is that, like, code for they want your territory and to kill all of us slowly?”

Derek threw up his hands. “It’s not supposed to! When my mom hosted, it was just a convention. Well, not _just_ anything. It was a big deal to manage all of the alphas coming to one territory, but it wasn’t . . . it was diplomacy.” There was wistfulness around the edges of his tone.

“We are really not good at diplomacy, Derek,” Stiles pointed out. They were, in fact, distinctly awful at diplomacy.

Derek spread his hands emphatically, ‘I know’ written all over his face.

“There’s no getting out of this, is there?” Stiles was already resigned, already switching over to trying to think strategically, to plan, but he had to ask. Form was important, and any possibility of a way out had to be explored. There was probably a lot they could have gotten out of, over the years, if they had asked enough of the right questions at the right times. Deaton, of course, had never prompted them to ask.

The speaking look Derek shot at him was just as much for form as the question had been. It shouldn’t be physically possible to have that much judgemental incredulity in a pair of eyebrows.

Stiles sighed. “Yeah, yeah. So what do they want?”

“I don’t know! A convention, presumably.” Derek sat on the edge of Stiles’ bed, the line of his shoulders tense.

Stiles opened and closed his hand in Derek’s direction, a plain ‘gimme’ pointed at the letter.

> _Dear Mr Hale,_
> 
> _I hope this letter finds you in good health, and in a position to invite others into your territory for a diplomatic weekend. Having heard rumor of the recovery of the Hale pack, I and a few other former colleagues of your mother’s look forward to making your acquaintance in order to discuss your future role and involvement in the wider community. We will arrive July 7th, and each bring no more than one beta or spouse. I look forward to meeting your betas, your emissary, and the human we’ve heard so much about. The stories seem to indicate that he inhabits a unique place in your pack, which will also be an interesting point of discussion. We look forward to seeing you at this eighteenth quinquennial diplomatic weekend._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Marcus Schnee_

Stiles only had one reaction he could put into words. “Is quinquennial even a word?”

“It means every five years,” Derek said. He gave Stiles another beat of silence, then raised his eyebrows pointedly.

“Right, yeah, not actually a way out of it, and coming up soon. I am kind of disconcerted with how much they know, and also that they know about me at all? Plus, like, you had humans in your pack when you were a kid. I shouldn’t be a big deal.”

Derek glanced briefly away and tilted one of his shoulders. It’s probably a sign that they’d spent too much time together over the past few years that this was a massive tell. Stiles narrowed his eyes at Derek. With most people, the chances of him and his ADHD outwaiting their patience to make them be the ones to fill an awkward silence were slim to none. But Derek rarely made him actually wait, even when he didn’t want to talk. Derek sighed. “They were all related. Aurora and Nora were my sisters: the alpha’s kids. Packs can - packs can take as many different forms as purely human families, even if they’re more tightly knit. But extended families are the overwhelming norm. The ones who are mostly peers - like us, like the alpha pack - are. Well. Expected to be like the alpha pack in coherence if not status.”

Stiles flopped back on his bed, deeply annoyed. “They think we’re basically a gang,” he said flatly. “No leeway for chosen family or extenuating circumstances.” It was a statement, not a question.

“You could - distance yourself? We might be able to convince them you’re involved in things for your own reasons and not because of your connection to the rest of the pack.” Derek didn’t say it like he meant it, or even meant Stiles to consider it seriously.

Stiles elbowed him half-heartedly. “You know better. Besides, if they already know about me, it’s safer for me to stay close.”

They both fell silent a moment, considering. Eventually, hesitantly, Derek suggested, “You could move in. That’d be some physical security, at least.”

“I’m not sure that’ll help with the -” Stiles bolted upright, inspiration electrifying him. It was perfect. “We’ll pretend to date.”

Most of the time, when Derek was being judgemental, he only raised one eyebrow, or only raised them a little bit, to give himself room to intensify the judgement if people persisted in being stupid. Stiles had made - maybe more of a study of that part of his communication style than was strictly necessary, but he’d probably have noticed anyway. Derek did a lot of judging people with his eyebrows. Right now, Derek was judging him with both eyebrows raised sharply towards his hairline.

Stiles shrank a little bit. “Okay, fine, maybe not. It was just an idea - make it seem like there was some legitimacy to me being involved with the pack.”

“No,” Derek said hastily. “I was - surprised.” More slowly, he said, “It’s not a bad idea. It gives a good reason, and a structure for us to follow. One they’ll be familiar with.”

“Right. Okay.” Stiles had no idea how to follow up on that.

All stories are a little bit true. It was part of the reason Stiles hadn’t stopped watching werewolf movies. The story they would have to cleave to in order to sell themselves as a couple was going to have a painful little bit of truth in it. Painful, because Stiles had spent so long trying not to think about anything resembling feelings for Derek.

“So you should. Move in. Probably?” Derek didn’t sound any more certain of what he was doing than Stiles. That had been getting rarer over the past few years, and Stiles was pretty sure he was one of the few people who still heard Derek uncertain.

Stiles nibbled his bottom lip, mind darting to the sheriff’s office as always. “What about my dad?”

It took Derek only half a moment to come up with a viable solution. “If he stays with Melissa, there’s going to be a werewolf around whenever he’s off-shift.”

Stiles nodded. “Okay, yeah. Not like that’ll be much different than usual. You know, I’m pretty sure he practically moved in with her after Spring Break? And he’s just kind of been pretending he still lives here since the semester ended.” He knew he was babbling, but couldn’t seem to stop. “Okay. That’s the plan.”

\--

Selling the sheriff on moving in to Derek’s for a while was a surprisingly uncomplicated process. Stiles started trying to explain about politics, and how it would be fine, probably, but there were people -

The sheriff raised a hand to stop Stiles. “You’re an adult, son. If you want to go for a trial run living with Hale, that’s your decision. How long do you think you’ll be gone, and do you need help packing?”

Stiles realized his mouth was hanging open and snapped it shut. Support and lack of questions were great, but - wouldn’t his dad miss him? And he seemed to be misunderstanding why, exactly, Stiles was doing this, though that wasn’t important, probably. “Uh. A few weeks. And no, Scott’ll come help load stuff up, and no point in us hauling stuff when there’s werewolves.” Abruptly, he remembered the other part of the equation. “Oh, and you should probably move in with Melissa until this passes?”

A faint blush rose on the sheriff’s face. “I can do that, son.”

-

Scott came over early the next morning, looking kind of incredulous. Stiles was midway through packing a duffel bag - he probably only needed 10 plaid shirts, right? - but stopped when he saw Scott’s expression. Okay, and when he noticed that Scott had brought coffee. But the expression was totally his priority.

“Derek says you’re moving in with him?”

“Just - temporarily? He told you about the alphas, right?”

Scott shrugged. “Something about a conference? I figure if it’s important he’ll tell us again sometime that’s _not_ a 6am run.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. That was Scott - once he’d thrown in on someone or something, he was all in and done with thinking about the consequences. “Yeah, basically. They wrote a letter, and were more curious about me than either of us is comfortable with, so I’m moving in with Derek until we’re clear. My dad’s moving in with you and your mom, just so there aren’t any squishy humans left alone.” He started packing again, shoving sweats into the duffel, too. Should he bring toothpaste? Derek had to have toothpaste, but what if he had the wrong brand? Stiles deliberated a moment, then decided to chance it. He could deal with subpar toothpaste if he needed to. Laptop in his bag, and he was set. “Okay. Let’s load up, Scottie.”

Scott raised an eyebrow and reached for the duffel before Stiles waved him off. “Nope. I can grab this. I need you to grab the books.” Stiles nodded at a stack of boxes in the corner: magic texts he’d accumulated over the past couple years from estate sales, bookstores, and Derek’s apartment. Since he was moving in, he might as well return them.

Scott sighed, then lifted all three boxes with no apparent effort. Stiles preceded him down the stairs and out to the Jeep, holding the door so he didn’t get stuck with no free hands. It felt weird to be moving in only one trip; packing for university had been four trips and then turning around half an hour out of town because he’d forgotten important things. Coming back for a summer of freedom and online classes had been even worse, since he had to do all of his packing himself. But this wasn’t like a real move, he guessed. Derek had everything for, like, living in his apartment, and it wasn’t like Stiles was moving in with him for real or permanently. It was more like an extended sleepover. Stiles closed the back of the Jeep on all of the boxes. “Are you coming to Derek’s or am I dropping you off somewhere?”

Scott shook his head. “I’ll stay here, see if your dad wants any help.”

He’d said he had it handled, but he might be more willing to take advantage of a supernatural dude he’d seen lift a couch single-handedly. Stiles shrugged. “Okay. Talk to you later.”

Driving to Derek’s, he tried to puzzle out the trepidatious feeling that had taken root somewhere in his chest. Imminent threat shouldn’t do that anymore, and the alphas weren’t all that imminent. It was probably the pretending they would have to do, and having to convince the alphas that he wasn’t pretending while leaving Derek convinced that he was. Piece of cake. Absolutely no reason to feel on the edge of a panic attack. Everything would be fine.

-

All stories are a little bit true. Piecing things together and figuring out exactly which bits are true is where things get hard. Stiles knew what he wanted to be true in this story he was weaving with Derek, but he couldn’t let what he wanted blind him to what was actually happening. Stiles pulled on Derek’s shirt and reminded himself firmly not to pine pathetically. And it was pathetic - he was Derek’s friend, a confidant, he was someone Derek would protect and trust to watch his back. Stiles of all people knew how huge it was to have Derek trust him - trust anyone - at all. He had no business wanting more. Besides, Derek could have anyone. Why would he want Stiles?

Stiles knew he wasn’t unattractive, but there was attraction and then there was dealing with a neurotic obsessive who would never be able to join you howling at the moon. And knowing he was a hot mess didn’t actually help him fix it, so, really, better overall to just not embarrass both himself and Derek and make this whole thing an ordeal. Stiles kept his sigh as noiseless as possible, because Derek could probably still hear him being loud even behind the bathroom door. Thus braced, he went back into the main room. “Okay, what’s next in the scent-stravaganza?”

Derek shrugged. “Mostly just trying to make it seem like you spend most of your time here. You’re already here a lot, so there’s old scents, but we want more of them. I might turn off the A/C for a bit.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow at him. “Because smelling like we’ve been getting sweaty and gross is - okay, yeah. Right.” He felt a blush trying to rise and studiously ignored it.

They sat around on their laptops for most of the afternoon, ignoring each other for the most part. After a while, Stiles was able to forget their ruse and fall into the natural rhythm of it: they’d spent a few afternoons almost exactly the same. The major difference was that they’d been wearing their own clothes rather than each others’. The sun set slowly, sliding into a long summer gloaming.

“What do you want for dinner?”

Stiles blinked, surfacing from the game he’d been focusing on, then blinked again at the way the daylight had fled to full dark. “Uh - is anyone joining us?”

Pack dinners could get boisterous, which was great, but between everyone’s dislikes and Lydia’s veganism, it made settling on a menu a little complicated. So when Derek shook his head, Stiles smiled. “Stroganoff?” The two of them were the only ones who really liked it.

“Start water for the noodles,” Derek suggested in response.

They made dinner together, moving past each other smoothly in the small kitchen. It was comforting: a reminder that they worked well as a unit, that they could totally get through this symposium alive on the strength of it. Over dinner, they talked about Stiles’ online summer classes and Derek’s most recent forays into property management.

After, they fell naturally to strategizing. It was what they did. Frequently everything ended up going horribly wrong anyway, but over the past couple years they’d at least gotten into the habit of trying to hash out as much as possible beforehand.

There was a natural pause in their conversation, one that became decidedly unnatural as Derek glanced towards the window and the night now fully gathered outside. “What time do you want to go to bed?”

Stiles felt his heart pick up speed, and ignored it determinedly in hopes that it would go away. No weird reactions here. Nope. Derek was an important partner and teammate and Stiles totally had no other feelings about sleeping in the same bed as him. “Uh - like, an hour, maybe? Though you know my sleep schedule is shit.”

Derek made a wry face in acknowledgement - he’d gotten more than a few phone calls from Stiles at early o’clock because Stiles hadn’t been paying attention to the time. “That’s fine. We should spend at least some time there together - to actually blend our scents.”

“Yeah, makes sense,” Stiles said, and then went back to trying not to think about it. He wasn’t thinking about it so hard that the hour sped past him, and Derek was gently lobbing his toothbrush into his lap. He shut his computer and went to get ready for bed, putting on a different shirt of Derek’s along with his sleep pants.

Then he came out, and stopped in his tracks. He stared at Derek in the bed, just lying there all comfortable in his sweats and tank top, one arm raised in welcome and one eyebrow raised in impatience. He stared at Derek, and it was like being kicked in the chest. “Uh - I have to - check that the Jeep is good overnight. I’ll. Be right back.”

Stiles took the stairs, because he couldn’t wait for the elevator, not for this. He made it to the second-to-bottom landing before he had to lean against the wall and slump down, deep in the grips of a panic attack. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t share a bed with Derek. It would kill him. There was a vice around his chest, so he couldn’t draw a full breath. Oh God. He couldn’t do this. Worse: he couldn’t tell Derek why he couldn’t do this. That would just make everything worse, bring everything down on his head. Fuck.

The world faded into a grey haze of adrenaline and awful for a while. He didn’t come out of it so much as through, into the clear stark place where feelings were far enough removed to be examined clinically and where, if he kept very still, everything would be fine. So he was in love with Derek, and in lust with him, too. That was . . . definitely a complication. But now he knew, and could deal with it. Maybe. Probably. Time had shown him that naming a thing was halfway to beating it. He took a deep breath, testing the bounds of the vice around his chest. The breath came easily. He took another. Okay. He could do this. He could go back upstairs. All he needed to do was keep this named thing locked up where it couldn’t complicate anything. They’d get through this, they’d get through the summer, and then Stiles would go back to campus and be able to try to either forget or let himself feel.

He pulled himself to his feet and trudged to the elevator - panic attacks still took a lot out of him, even though he had more to give these days.

When he opened the door to the loft, Derek was nowhere in sight, and panic threatened to seize Stiles’ breath again. He took a slightly unsteady step in, then another, and then - oh, there was Derek in the kitchen, drinking a glass of water as he leaned against the counter. Derek raised an eyebrow at him, and Stiles shook his head; he didn’t want to talk about it. Ever, by preference. He got into the big bed, laying on his side and trying to control his heartbeat. It was too fast, as was his breathing. Hideously so. He stared at the wall, trying to breathe slowly. It was only a few moments later, it seemed like, that the far side of the bed dipped. The shift in weight seemed almost hesitant, and Derek lay an inch away from Stiles on the bed rather than flush to him. It was still close enough for Stiles to feel Derek’s heat - and close enough for Stiles to reach back and grab Derek’s arm and drag it over his side. They still had goals to accomplish.

-

Stiles woke achingly hard, and stumbled to the bathroom for a frigid shower before he was even awake. When he got out, Derek was gone and there was a Post-It on the door saying ‘gone jogging’ in his too-perfect handwriting. Stiles contemplated going on his own run, but he’d just showered. Plus there was an online class session for one of the weird gen-eds where they made you actually pretend to pay attention as if you were in a class. They tracked attendance, too, so he had to leave the browser open and just dick around on his phone. That got boring, though, so he cleaned the kitchen. He started with the dishes, but ended up straightening up the cleaning supplies under the sink along the way. Then that was mostly done, all the necessary stuff clean, probably, and the lecture was only half over. So he started wiping down the counters. But wiping down the cabinets lead to judging the way Derek had organized his spices, and Stiles was halfway through reorganizing it when he realized he’d forgotten his Adderall.

“Fuck,” he said, resigned.

“Hmm?” Derek said, sliding open the door.

“Realized I forgot my amphetamines.”

“Well, I brought coffee if you want to wash your stimulants down with stimulants,” Derek offered, holding out a to-go tray with the largest size of cup Stiles knew the local coffee shop carried.

“I love you,” he said, not thinking about it. He said I love you to most people who fed him caffeine. But this was - too true. Differently true. He practically dove for his backpack where it sat next to the couch so he could rummage through it for his Adderall. He looked at Derek from the corner of his eye, but Derek didn’t look like he was reacting to anything out of the ordinary. Derek set the coffee down on the counter and beelined for the bathroom.

Stiles gulped down his Adderall with hot black coffee, and then belatedly checked on his lecture: it had been over for ten minutes. Well, at least that was done. “Hey, Derek,” Stiles said in a normal voice, confident Derek could hear him over the running water. “Want breakfast?”

“Yes,” Derek shouted back. “Eggs are in the fridge.”

Well, yeah. There were always eggs in the fridge, with the number of people routinely being fed in Derek’s kitchen. Speaking of: Stiles checked his phone, then sent out a group text. _Brunch at Derek’s?_

 _Early shift with Isaac :(_ , Erica said. Which meant that Isaac wouldn’t be texting back.

Boyd replied with only an egg emoji, so Stiles figured he’d be there in about half an hour. He cracked ten eggs in a bowl and whisked them with milk, then threw the whole mess of it in a deep skillet.

Derek came out of the bathroom still toweling his hair, shoulders stretching one of Stiles’ shirts. It was - disconcerting. But there was more breakfast to throw together, so he just focused on doing that.

The door slid open, and Peter announced, in his usual grandiose fashion, “I come bearing tribute.”

Stiles still didn’t like him, so he just let out a tight hum of acknowledgement. When he glanced over, though, there was a Starbucks to-go cup with the other coffee on the counter. Every time someone arrived, the number of cups had grown. Even Lydia brought an Americano when she breezed in, and she didn’t even eat breakfast. She leaned against the counter next to the stove and examined Stiles’ face, drinking a distressingly green smoothie. “So you realized.”

A bright hot burst of embarrassment and rage shot through him. She’d known, and hadn’t said anything, and why had she known before he had? “Mm,” he said, neither confirming nor denying.

She patted him on the chest, then let her hand rest there until Stiles looked at her. “It’s a hard thing to navigate when you’re in the middle. It’ll turn out better than you think it will.”

“Mm,” he said, trying to convey his annoyance. Talking in code in front of werewolves without letting them catch on that there was even code wasn’t something he felt particularly prepared for until after the Adderall had kicked in. It would be terrible if any of them realized that there was even something being covered up, because Boyd would express concern to Erica and she’d interrogate him mercilessly and then everyone would know and everything would be ruined forever.

Lydia patted his chest one more time. “I’ll put on the toast.”

They had brunch, all of them, and it became the comfortable hubbub that they’d built over the past few years. Gradually, Stiles lost his tension over the idea that Lydia knew, that Derek could find out, that everything would be ruined forever. When Derek passed behind him on the way to grab more orange juice, and ran his hand casually over the back of Stiles’ neck, that actually drove away the last of the tension. They were fine.

-

Stiles was done with his homework for the week, which meant that he could curl up on the couch, tuck his feet under Derek’s thighs, and look at GRE prep documents. “Why do I want to go to grad school, again?”

“No idea,” Derek said, with the ease of long habit, and patted Stiles’ ankle.

Stiles thunked his head back against the arm of the couch. “It really is a terrible idea. But the Folklore program -”

“You don’t need to do it for us, if you don’t want to do it for yourself. You always learn what you need to when it’s needed, and the rest of us can put the work in, too.” Derek’s hand was still a warm, comforting weight on his ankle.

“Blargh,” Stiles said, the complete encapsulation of the discussions they’d had and the perseverating he’d done on his own. He would probably be contemplating grad school up until he was actually looking at the job market.

Derek didn’t look up from his laptop, which had important-looking spreadsheets up on it and had for a couple hours. “Do we need to watch a Disney movie?”

“Blargh,” Stiles said, this time in agreement. He hated his brain. It was a pity that ‘pack human’ wasn’t a viable career path.

Derek obligingly put on Aladdin, and they settled in to watch it. Derek sank into him on the couch, head against his shoulder. _It’s just for scent_ , Stiles reminded himself. His hand still ended up buried in Derek’s hair, almost petting him. There was something tantalizing in hair that was soft as silk without the habitual product in it. There was a palpable difference in temperature between his scalp and the ends. Stiles kept running his fingers through it.

Credits were rolling before either of them said anything. “I’m worried they’ll be able to tell I’m a shit alpha,” Derek said quietly. It wasn’t even a non sequitur; the upcoming symposium had been the background hum to most of their conversations since Stiles moved in.

“Hey, no, you’re not,” Stiles said reflexively. He backed away, because he needed to be able to look Derek in the face.

Derek raised his eyebrows. “We’ve almost died. Several times.”

“Yeah, but we didn’t. That counts for a lot. You protect us when you can, and you’ve brought us together so we protect each other.” Derek rested his hand on Stiles’ arm where it was still raised, because his hand was still in Derek’s hair. Something in him quaked, even as the world stood still. It felt like a ravine had opened between them and Stiles was standing on a precipice. But the shuddering moment passed, Stiles anchored by the physical sensations of Derek: his hair soft, his hand warm, the vulnerable look on his face somehow comforting. They were in this together.

Derek’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. His thumb slid slowly, tentatively over the underside of Stiles’ wrist. “You know you’re an important part of keeping us together, right? I couldn’t do this alone. I think that’s part of why . . .”

The tightly-wound coil of emotions that Stiles had been studiously ignoring came unwound with almost percussive force. “I love you,” he said, not knowing he was going to say it until the words were out of his mouth. But there was no walking back from that - anything he said that was trying to back down would cheapen and sour the moment and probably frustrate them both. The only way out was through. “Completely. Like, romantically. I’m not here just because I’m pack, not just because it would maybe keep me safe. I love you for your own sake. I know you don’t feel -”

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek interrupted, his tone almost desperate.

Stiles felt sick with apprehension, but he snapped his mouth shut.

Derek’s hand slid from Stiles’ arm to the back of the couch, and Derek turned to face him more squarely. The space between them felt like a frozen void, the sudden absence of Derek’s heat upsetting in its absence. But Derek’s legs were still tangled with his. “You mean it?”

And that wasn’t any kind of horror on his face, in his voice. There was a desperate light in his eyes, and his voice was edging on hoarse. Oh. _Oh._ Lydia’s words ran through his head. ‘It’ll turn out better than you think it will.’ She’d known.

“Yes,” Stiles said, and leaned in. Stiles kissed him slow, because this was too important to let Derek think it was born of impulse like so many other things in Stiles’ life. He slanted his mouth over Derek’s, trying to persuade him that this was something they could do, something they _should_ do. Derek took a moment before he started kissing back, and when he did it was tentative. His lips were soft and warm, and when they parted, the heat of him was electric. A shiver ran down Stiles’ spine, and his tongue darted out to lick into Derek’s mouth without conscious thought. He wanted to go slow, to show he was serious, to explore every detail along the way. But he also wanted everything, immediately or sooner. It felt like he’d always wanted everything, though he had no idea how he could have survived for long with this yearning inside him.

Derek’s hands came to rest on Stiles’ thighs. His mouth parted more fully, and then he was kissing Stiles like he wanted to devour him. Eventually Stiles needed to come up for air. “I love you, too,” Derek said.

Stiles started to speak, found he couldn’t, swallowed, and tried again. “Go to bed with me?”

“Yes,” Derek said. He leaned in to kiss Stiles swiftly and then was gone, turning off the TV and striding towards the bed.

Stiles followed, nearly tripping over his laptop, his charger, his backpack. But he got free of the tangle and continued his stumble Derek-wards.

Derek caught him, the way Stiles knew he would, and they kissed again, hands now free to roam each other’s bodies.

Derek pulled Stiles’ belt loose with force enough to rock Stiles’ hips and threw it to the side, where it landed with a loud thunk. While his hands were off Stiles’ body, Stiles finished pulling Derek’s henley over his head. Derek kissed him again, reaching for his fly, and in a flurry of mouths and hands they were naked, standing at the foot of Derek’s bed. Derek leaned in, pressing his forehead to Stiles’. “What do you want?”

“Everything,” Stiles said hoarsely, running his hands over Derek’s abs. He’d had dreams about Derek’s abs since he was 16 years old, much as he’d tried to forget them in recent years. He’d never expected to be where he was now, and the whole prospect was dizzying.

Derek’s stomach flexed, and the ripple of the movement brought his cock to brush against Stiles’. Stiles gasped, and Derek let out a low groan. “Not helpful. What do you want right now?”

Stiles’ brain turned to static. Everything. Anything. Anything that kept Derek touching him. His hands slid up Derek’s chest to his shoulders. “What do you want?”

Derek kissed him sweetly, one hand coming up to cup his face. When their mouths parted, Derek ran his thumb over Stiles’ lower lip, where it dragged on the moisture of their joined mouths. “Will you - would you . . .”

He didn’t seem capable of finishing the request out loud, but he dragged his eyes up from Stiles’ mouth and slid his thumb in, and that was request enough. Stiles touched his tongue to Derek’s thumb, heard the hitch in his breath, and closed his mouth, sucking once. He set Derek away from him, and Derek went, compliant in their twined ardor. “Yeah. Yeah, I want to. Get on the bed?”

He did, and looked magnificent against the dark grey of his sheets, like something made of moonlight and wet dreams. “You’re gorgeous,” Stiles said, because it needed to be said. Said and solemnized, given weight so that Stiles could remember that it _wasn’t_ a dream. He sank to his knees between Derek’s parted legs. “Come here,” he said, hands on Derek’s hips. Derek slid where Stiles wanted him, and having all of that constrained power willingly taking his direction was its own heady aphrodisiac. He licked one long stripe up from the root of Derek’s cock to the tip, then took it into his mouth as far as he could. Derek’s cock hit the back of his throat, and he didn’t think he could adjust to take all of him, but the almost choking press of it was absurdly hot. He bobbed up and down, his spit slicking the way, and tipped his head to try to see Derek’s face. He wanted to see what Derek was liking, what he looked like, what his face did when he was in the throes of pleasure rather than pain.

Derek was looking at him down the long plane of his torso, his mouth parted and his eyes dark with lust. Stiles held his gaze while he sucked, hard. Derek arched at that, and his mouth fell further open, which made Stiles groan. He set about sucking Derek’s cock with all the tricks he’d learned at university and on the internet, wanting to make this as good as he could for Derek. Derek’s hips arched, tiny involuntary motions that made Stiles so hard he started leaking. Just the idea that this was Derek’s cock his mouth was wrapped around, Derek coming slowly undone was incredibly heady.

It didn’t take much longer for Derek to throw his head back, his hands to clench in the sheets, and bitter salty come to fill Stiles’ mouth. Derek shuddered in the aftermath of pleasure, his mouth soft and his thighs falling lax beneath Stiles’ hands.

“That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Can I rub off on you?”

Derek reached for him wordlessly. Clumsy with lust, Stiles joined him on the bed, and it was Derek that kept them from colliding messily. Derek kissed him instead, not seeming put off by the taste that was lingering in Stiles’ mouth. “Do it,” he said.

Just at the words, Stiles’ hips shuddered down. The cut of Derek’s hip was damp with sweat, enough to cut the friction but not enough for it to be a perfectly smooth glide where Stiles fucked into the groove. But it felt so good to be skin to skin with Derek that Stiles knew it definitely wasn’t going to be very long. It felt like every fantasy he hadn’t even been able to articulate was coming true.

And then Derek was reaching between them and stroking Stiles, which added a new layer to the sensations driving Stiles out of his mind. He didn’t even wrap his hand fully around Stiles, but his knuckles brushed Stiles’ stomach and his hand was on Stiles’ cock and then his mouth was on the side of Stiles’ jaw, too, and then it was all over, Stiles coming in spurts all over Derek’s stomach. “Fuck,” Stiles said fervently, words having mostly abandoned him.

Derek chuckled, the effect redoubled because Stiles could feel his chest move, then rolled Stiles off him and got up.

Stiles didn’t have time to muster the brain cells to feel bereft before Derek was back, carrying two washcloths. They both wiped up enough not to be dealing with a sticky mess in the morning, then Derek came back to bed. There was no hesitation this time when he slid in, his arm going around Stiles’ middle and his head on Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles showed his approbation of this plan by tangling their legs together.

Derek buried his face in the side of Stiles neck, sniffed, then sighed happily. Stiles rubbed his cheek against Derek’s hair and whispered, “Are you smelling me, you weirdo?”

Derek hummed, going bonelessly relaxed on Stiles’ chest. He was warm enough that it would be unbearable during the day, but with the nighttime breeze coming through the windows it was comforting. Stiles threaded his fingers through the dark silk of Derek’s hair, unimaginably content. All stories are a little bit true. You just have to piece together your happy ending.


End file.
